My City
by LoveToday15
Summary: I live in New Orleans. The town founded by an Original vampire wolf and running under the oppression of witches. Sometimes it seemed like a joke, but I lived with my brother. My brother was one of the most respected vampires in the city—until he died. And the blame seems to be on me. And the only person defending me is Klaus. Full Summary inside T for language
1. Chapter 1

**My City:**

**I live in New Orleans. Most vampires laughed when I said that, claiming it was a bad choice of lifestyle. The town founded by an Original vampire wolf hybrid and running under the oppression of witches—I could agree. Sometimes it seemed like a joke, but I lived with my brother. My brother was one of the most respected vampires in the city—until he died.**

**And the blame seems to be on me.**

* * *

**I never thought my brother would die.**

**He was immortal, for one thing—a vampire. But not just physically. People admired him. He was the kind of guy who got along with everyone—who could charm anyone into being on his side. Even Marcel. Everyone wanted his approval.**

**So who would kill him? I promised his dead body I would find his killer and rip them to pieces.**

**Until people started to believe I was the killer. And the only person on my side seems to be Klaus—the Original vampire I just don't have the patience for.**

* * *

"I'm sorry for your loss,"

The words had been echoing around me for the past three hours. Marcel was circling around the room, dressed in a black suit that made him somehow seem hundreds of years older. The family also circled, some crying even, dressed similarly.

We were at a 'funeral'—a vampire funeral.

My brother's funeral.

I couldn't find my words to speak and the person in front of me moved on, repeating the same sentence over and over. Some people said things like, "Zeke was a great man' and 'you were lucky to be his sister.'

I'd kind of had enough.

A moment later, Marcel was at my side again. He'd been hovering next to me on a loop. I was a moment's away from screaming at him, or hitting him, or snarling at him.

"How are you?"

I didn't answer him either. He didn't want an answer; this was all a front to him. Zeke was my brother; to Marcel, he was also like a brother, but there were so many secrets Marcel didn't know about him.

"He's lucky, isn't he?" I found my words again, staring across the room at Zeke's closed coffin. "Two funerals in his lifetime. What kind of people grieve over a person's second death?"

"People who care," Marcel said soberly. I clenched my fists, but as I looked around at all these people, I realized they did care. Vampires were crying and grieving. I'd never thought I'd see this day.

"Look, we're having a visitor tonight. He didn't want to come to this funeral thing, but he wants to see you."

"Who?" I asked, glancing at Marcel sideways.

"You'll know when you see him." Frowning a little, looking up and down at my clothes, he added, "Dress nicely."

I didn't care. All these people who'd brought out their nice clothes and suits and dresses, for who? Would Zeke see them and compliment them? One of the girls had insisted I wear black, but I wore a red dress Zeke used to laugh at, talking about how ironic it looked, a vampire dressed in a blood red dress.

"Look, things have changed now that Zeke's gone,"

"He's not gone." I snapped. "He's dead."

The room went slightly quieter, some people looking a little embarrassed. Marcel cleared his throat quietly, smiling a little at some while I stared at them all. He took my hand and placed something in it; a ring. Zeke's daylight ring.

"You should wear it for him."

"What kind of offer are you making?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"Do I need to elaborate?"

He was staring at me, waiting for my reaction. I wondered what he expected, and realized that what he expected was far from the truth. Did he expect me to rejoice at the prospect of joining his little family? That had been Zeke. I observed from the outskirts, and I'd seen enough. His little 'family' was like a cult. I wasn't interested.

"I'll keep the ring. But make your offer to someone who is interested." I paused, then added, "I know you don't like having one man down in your gang. Maybe you'll find a new Zeke."

I walked away. People parted like I was a bomb about to explode. I remembered Zeke telling me things like that, handing me presents and joking about how he 'wouldn't want his bomb of a sister to explode.' I'd never known if it was a compliment or an insult. I added it to the list of things I'd never know.

When I stepped outside, the air was cool. Street lights were flickering, an occasional car passed and people milled about, but only the daring ones. Not many people came out at night in New Orleans.

I stared at Zeke's ring in my hand. Smooth silver with a simple, black rectangle stone. Onyx. Old. Lapis Lazuli gems smaller than specks outlining it.

I didn't care about Marcel and his damned intentions. I turned and walked away, back to my home.

* * *

I found Deven lying on the floor, with loud music thumping from every speaker in the house. The music was all different, coming from different devices, and I walked around, turning off each system until silence rang in my ears and Deven moaned in protest on the floor.

"It's too loud," he whined, his hands pressed against his ears. "Put it up."

I nudged him with my foot. I could smell the alcohol on him, and disgusted a little, I kneeled down to push him awake. He winced, curling in on himself.

He turned away, closing his eyes and wincing. Annoyed, I moved to drag him to his room, and he groaned, shaking his head and muttering the whole time.

Deven was directly related to Zeke and I. His mom was like our niece, and she had some of our blood. Zeke had made it his mission to track down and protect our family, which meant making sure they had enough to live on and they weren't living harshly. When Deven's mom was killed by vampires, leaving him with no one and a rental house, Zeke made him come live with us before letting Dev 'manage' his own house and money, even though he had always claimed he was fully capable. He was taking Zeke's death harshly.

I left him on his bed still dressed, muttering about how his thoughts were too loud.

"Isabella," he called back, and I turned, putting a hand on the doorway. His eyes were wide as he stared at me. "Put the music on,"

Sighing, I went around the apartment again, switching on every music system until the bass was so loud I couldn't hear my thoughts. I figured that was the reason why he wanted the music so bad.

I didn't want anyone finding out that Dev existed; although Zeke had been the one to take him in, he'd always insisted on no one knowing that there was any affiliation between them.

After clearing the mess Dev made, I slept on the couch, hoping to find Zeke in my dreams, but there was only endless blackness.

* * *

"Isabella!" Marcel thumped on the door with an open hand.

Klaus waited at his side. He hadn't known about Zeke dying—they'd been close, before he moved back to New Orleans, and when he found out, he realized he'd have to wait a few days before bringing up the dilemma with the witch trying to end him.

Marcel hadn't wanted Klaus to come; but Klaus couldn't just mourn over Zeke without meeting Zeke's sister, Isabella. Marcel was strangely protective over her, claiming that Klaus better 'behave' around her. He wanted to knock out his front teeth when he'd said that, but the look in Marcel's eyes had been too unassuming.

Klaus wondered why the girl was staying in a large factory—because that's what the building was. Huge, industrial, made of brick with huge windows on the first and second floor, and a wrap-around balcony strung with lights as the only thing that made it look… used.

"Is she alright?" Klaus asked, partially concerned. The music coming out of the rooms was loud enough to make his ears ache, and he wondered how she could stand it inside. They'd had to walk behind the building, down two alleys.

"She's probably just sleeping."

Without warning, Marcel pushed on the door handle and a loud click sounded. The door swung open, and the first thing Klaus noticed was the hugeness of the home.

It didn't look like a home. Marcel continued on, walking on the dusty floor that looked like it hadn't been used in years. There were desks lying around, old computers, and a tall spiral staircase made of shining ornate metal. Marcel started climbing up.

On the second floor, after he pushed open another door, it was much homier. Bookshelves filled with books and other strange items looked big enough to tip over, lining practically every wall. Lights were strung across the wooden beams that formed the ceiling.

A huge fireplace under the television, three large sofas, and on one of them, a sleeping girl, wearing a red dress and shoes that she hadn't taken off, but her hair was loose and long, hanging over the end of the sofa. The resemblance between Zeke and the girl was suddenly startling to him, even with her eyes closed.

Marcel grunted, annoyed, and circled the loft, turning off every music system until there was only silence. In a sudden fit, the girl launched herself off the sofa, throwing Marcel to the ground beneath her with a stake in her hand, pressed against his chest.

She looked more alive in that moment than anyone he'd ever seen. The image of Marcel about to die at the hands of this girl was more pleasing than he thought it would be.

She turned her eyes on him—and he realized he had met her before. He recognized her from her eyes—green or gold, like a cat's.

There was an immediate recognition on her face as well. She narrowed her eyes, and stood up, straightening her red dress. He frowned as he looked at it, wondering why she even owned the atrocity, and when he met her eyes again, she found him glaring.

"What are you both doing in here?" She demanded, reprimanding them like they were lost schoolboys.

"I wanted to introduce you to Klaus," Marcel said, clearing his throat, and Isabella pulled the stake away and it disappeared, somewhere between pulling her arm back and Marcel standing up.

His eyes were friendly, warm. But her gaze turned to steel as she stared.

She turned away, taking a deep breath as if to calm down, then walked toward Klaus and held out a hand.

"Pleasure to meet you," she said, waiting. "I'm Isabella,"

There was a warning in her eyes. He knew, somehow, that she was warning him against bringing up that they'd met before. He took her hand.

"The pleasure is all mine," he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. She glared, waiting for him to let go.

"Please don't respond to a greeting like that for the next century. You're quite out-dated—has anyone ever mentioned that to you?" She asked, looking genuinely curious.

He didn't know whether to laugh or be offended. She was clearly embarrassed—she was blushing, standing out against her skin, but making her hazel eyes look somehow reflective. She turned to Marcel, and he realized he was staring.

"I'm a thousand years old—it can be hard to keep up," he replied, clearing his throat.

"That could be dangerous." She walked toward the kitchen he hadn't noticed before, pushing back the kettle roughly and slamming it on. He was still thinking about her words when jumped up to sit on the bench of the kitchen. "Was there any real purpose for us meeting?" she asked, directing her words to Marcel.

"Don't you want to meet the only vampire werewolf in the world?" The way Marcel said it made Klaus feel like a sideshow freak. He resisted the urge to bare his teeth at him; he wasn't a freak, he was powerful. One of a kind.

"Any real purpose?" Isabella repeated, ignoring Marcel.

"Actually, yes," Klaus answered. Isabella turned to look at him, looking slightly surprised. "Zeke left some things with me. I think they were for you,"

He'd never really understood why Zeke had given him a locked old wooden chest—inside, there were old journals he'd never had the time to look at. At a closer observation, he realized there were records as well—of where every cent he spent went to. It didn't mean anything to him, but to Isabella, it could.

"He never told you if they were?" She frowned. Behind her, the kettle switched off, steam rising up to the distant ceiling, but she made no move to it.

"Ah, no," he remembered when he'd visited Zeke in Barcelona, and he'd been the most distraught he'd seen him. That was the first time Zeke mentioned a family; and then he'd just told him to take the wooden case. Klaus hadn't asked questions; he figured Zeke would tell him later on what to do with it. He didn't think it would be the last time he saw Zeke.

"Where is it?" Isabella asked, narrowing her eyes and looking around him.

"I didn't bring it," he said, clearing his throat. "Uh, I can bring it tomorrow."

"I'll pick it up, actually." She tilted her chin, a dare in her eyes. "_Quid dixit?"_

He recognized the Latin; and her perfect accent. With a sideway glance at Marcel, he realized that she was using a different language so that Marcel couldn't eavesdrop.

"What are you saying?" Marcel said anyway, irritation in his eyes but a warm smile on his face.

"_Nihil umquam exposuerunt,_"

Marcel cleared his throat loudly while Isabella raised her brow at Klaus's answer. She jumped off the counter, and she was about to answer when a new voice did instead.

"Why did you turn off the music?"

They all swivelled to face the teenage boy standing in the threshold of the hallway. He was drunk, plainly, and his hair was rumpled, eyes barely open.

Everyone seemed to stare at him until he opened his eyes properly, then looked shocked at the sight of visitors.

Isabella glared. Marcel's mouth opened in a little shock; Klaus didn't really understand what was going on. Was he another brother? Why were they all so shocked?

"Go away, Deven," she snapped.

"You're Marcel," the boy said, now frowning. "What are you doing here?"

"Go!" Isabella shouted. Her voice filled every space in this room, laced with heavy compulsion. His face turned scarlet and he turned, stomping away. Marcel turned, eyes wide, accusing. "Leave. I'll see you tomorrow."

Marcel's expression turned stony. He turned around and walked toward the door. Isabella reached out, pulling Klaus back by the arm roughly and slipping something into his pocket. He wondered what it was as he followed Marcel out, and she slammed the door behind them.

* * *

I spent the next two days at home. Deven wasn't ready to look me in the eyes, and I had to keep bringing food to his room before he could starve himself.

Marcel called on the third day.

I hung up on him.

On the fourth day, we ran out of food. I finally went into Zeke's room. I stood there until the sun went down.

I finally left home on the fifth day, but I couldn't even make it to the store—I ran back home to make sure Deven was alright.

He was still sleeping in his dark room.

Deven met me on the roof of the factory on the sixth night. I could barely make out his shadow in the darkness.

"Will you turn me?" he'd asked.

I told him to go back to sleep.

But the words played over and over in my mind, until they finally took over the screaming words that had struck since Marcel knocked on my door.

_Zeke's gone. _That's all there was.

I dreamt of him that night—it was a memory. He and Marcel had come in late and sat back, exhausted on the sofas asking for a drink.

I'd rolled my eyes and slammed the kettle on.

"Do you have to slam everything?" Zeke had demanded.

"It's just her personality," Marcel countered, and Zeke had shoved him, hard enough as a warning but lightly enough as a joke. He had that kind of easy balance.

"How do you know that's my real personality?" I'd called over the screeching kettle. "After all, _montrez-moi le vôtre et je vais montrer la mienne,"_ Show me yours and I will show mine.

"_Isabella," _Zeke had snapped sharply, but he was supressing a smile.

Marcel had shown irritation for the first time. It had been strange; just a slight harshness to his stare that happened so suddenly and briefly I thought I'd imagined it.

"You know I don't speak Latin," Marcel had sighed.

"Or French, clearly."

He'd stayed silent. Eventually, Marcel and Zeke had begun to argue about need-to-know phrases in other languages, such as "What is your name" and "Where is the nearest petrol station?" But then they decided that phrases like "Where is the nearest blood bank?" and "Do I have blood on my shirt?" were more useful to vampires.

I'd translated each phrase, then taught Marcel how to say "Show me yours and I will show mine" in French and Latin. He thought he was learning how to say "Where is the nearest blood bank." Zeke's shoulders were tense with supressed laughter. He turned to me and winked.

When I woke, there was a pounding on the front door.

* * *

He followed her instructions and came a week later, carrying the wooden box between two hands and knocking on her door.

It took her a while to answer. He examined the building again, wondering if he should just go in like Marcel had last time, then decided against it.

There was a huge thump and then the door swung open, Isabella standing there holding herself like a queen, but she was wearing clothes that belonged on homeless people and her hair was mussed.

She reached out, snatching the box from his hands.

"Thank you, come again later," she sang, spinning around and closing the door behind her.

Klaus was unamused. He reached out and knocked again. Another thump, and the door opened again.

She stared expectantly.

"I need to talk to you."

She cleared her throat, stepped aside to let him in, and slammed the door shut behind them again.

"Talk," she said, crossing her arms over the wooden box like she was protecting it.

"How did it happen?" He asked. The first thing he'd wondered since he heard that Zeke died.

"Rogue vampires," she answered, in a way that he knew meant she didn't believe it.

She didn't believe Marcel's story either.

"I want to know what really happened," he crossed his arms.

He'd expected some sort of reaction; gratefulness at him offering to help, or relief at someone understanding her views. But instead, she looked annoyed.

"Hell if I know," she didn't elaborate further, but she added, "thanks for the delivery." She lifted the box a little. When he didn't move, she glared, and blood rushed to her eyes in anger. "Leave. Now."

"Do you know what I am?"

He was genuinely curious—and annoyed. Not many people dared to order him around—and he liked it that way.

The question seemed to make her angrier.

"If you're waiting for me to be terrified, you'll be waiting a long while. You might wanna drop off your resume with your history in case I don't know all the details."

"I hate sarcasm," he snapped. Because he did; but only when he wasn't using it.

"I hate hybrids,"

"That's a much more personal statement," he crossed his arms again.

"I don't care," she scoffed. He decided that he hated her. He'd expected a female version of Zeke; someone coolly logical, easy balance, who had the kind of intelligence no one could compete with. Someone anyone could get along with—someone who you wanted to know. She had the intelligent look in her eyes—but that was as close as it got—and well, he wanted to know her, but not in the same way.

"There's nothing of Zeke in you," he realized out loud.

"That's not an insult," she snarled. "And no one will ever be as good as him,"

She pushed passed him and slammed the door open, and when he walked out obligingly, she slammed it shut again. He wondered if she always slammed things.

**Hey not sure if I should continue, review and let me know?**


	2. Chapter 2

_I had just bombed Marcel's home. _

"This could have gone an entirely different way,"

Devon stood in the doorway, crossing his arms. There was a bag strapped to his back and a duffel bag at his side. His expression was angry.

Outside, my car was still running and there were fire alarms singing their songs.

"It really couldn't have. Now will you hurry up?" I demanded. I pushed passed him twirling the keys around my fingers.

He shut the door behind him and we hurried down the spiral staircase. I dragged his duffel behind me, and we ended up running to my car which was parked on the other side of the building in a makeshift carport.

"How long do we have?"

"Not long," I answered, jumping into the car so hard it shook. Then I slammed the door and Devon hardly had enough time to get in the passenger seat before the car roared forward.

My car loved roaring. Maybe it was all Mustangs—but this was old, 1970 model in bright yellow. It was the only colour I'd found it in.

We sped down the streets. The sun was high in the sky—and there was smoke puffing up in huge black clouds from a building in the distance. I imagined all of Marcel's nightwalkers, torn between running out of their building to be burned by the sun, or staying in the building to be burned by the fire.

I didn't realize I was smiling until Devon cleared his throat, giving me a strange look.

Not many people were around at this time, the middle of the day in the middle of the week, but I still had to dodge people walking on the streets as I drove towards a hotel. I never thought I'd have to deal with losing Devon.

"You could just—"

"No, Devon! Would you shut up about this turning shit?"

"I'm not kidding around here, Isabella. This would solve everything!"

"No. The answer is no, Dev. Leave it at that."

I drove into the parking lot and turned the car off. It was in between two spots, but I didn't have time to think about fines. Devon carried his bags as we walked to the entrance. We didn't bother with checking in and the lady didn't seem to care, either. We got into the elevator and I pressed on the 10th floor button.

I could hear fire alarms in the distance, and a fire truck too. An ambulance, although there wouldn't be any casualties.

The doors opened. The hotel was posh and high end, and years ago, Zeke had bought out the penthouse. But that wasn't where we were going.

Devon's new home was on the tenth floor in room 10d. I swiped the key card and Devon walked in soberly, head down, as I stayed in the doorway. He dumped his bags on the bed in defeat. I barely took in any of the room's details.

"Look, there's a fire escape on this floor right next to the cleaning closet. Always take the elevator. Call me immediately if you get suspicious. Zeke left you anonymous credit cards and don't hesitate to use them. Don't go anywhere for the next three days, and then—"

"Isabella, I know." Devon sat on the bed, frowning. "You've been telling me this for the past 5 days."

I stared at him for a moment. Devon had been living with us since he was 14. He was 18 now, and he'd changed in these past 4 years more than I ever thought was possible. Given the amount of time he spent with Zeke, it was more than possible, but it still hurt.

"I'm sorry." It was all I could say. I thought for a moment about turning him—if I did, would he be like Zeke? Another perfect image of my brother?

The thought barely lasted two seconds. I didn't want Zeke replaced. And Devon was just as special, but they weren't the same.

"It's not your fault," Devon replied automatically. He stared out the window as another wave of sirens reached us.

"We're going to move away," I promised. "Okay? Wherever you want."

He didn't say anything. I reached out to hug him tightly—he was taller than me. I felt like a mother leaving behind a child in a random hotel room.

"I'll see you soon."

* * *

Marcel pounded on the shaky metal door.

"Open the door, Isabella!" he was shouting; there was a rage in his voice. He couldn't hold it back; that fire that raged in his home was still choking him. The smoke might as well have spelled out Isabella's name; it had her name all over it.

He heard a thud and the door fell open at her hands. She looked like she'd been sleeping. He always had a strange moment when he looked at her: her green gold eyes were reflective and her lips were turned down, annoyed, but somehow, he could never forget the first time he'd seen her, when Zeke had told Marcel that he had a sister after knowing him for 3 years. She'd been a laughing girl then, eyes shining and a smile all the time.

"What?" she demanded, glaring.

"What are you doing?" Marcel demanded right back.

"I was trying to sleep," She snapped. "What do you want?"

"Did you set my house on fire?" he asked.

It was a strange question. But strange as it was, it wasn't the wrong question. He could see that in her face as she answered.

"Actually, I blew it up," she replied, not a trace of guilt in her voice. "The fires finished it off."

Marcel's reaction was immediate. His hands were around her neck and lifting her off the ground. There was no trace of shock in her expression. He knew there wouldn't be; she was prepared all the time. Instead of shock, there was a different look in her eyes. She never looked more alive or awake than when she was being threatened of fought.

"Two vampires died today," he snarled. He remembered Diego's face as he'd tried to drag out the bodies. "And it's on you."

She took in two slow, ragged breaths, and didn't struggle.

"I know,"

Marcel was seething. "I'm going to kill you." She didn't reply; her lips curled in disgust as she stared at Marcel. He went on, "You're going off the rails ever since Zeke died."

"I don't need a babysitter," she snarled. He dropped her and she stood with grace, coming to a decision about what he had to do.

"This isn't over," Marcel said. "You're going to regret this."

She drew herself up, all her emotions hidden and her expression blank. Marcel spoke, a final blow, "Zeke always said you'd make him lose everything. He always called you an explosion waiting to happen." And he had—he'd always said it affectionately, but she didn't need to know that.

She smiled nastily at him, but it was more like she was bearing her teeth. "I already died once," she said, "and I haven't exploded yet."

* * *

"How are you?"

People grasped Isabella's hands as she passed, some embraced her, and some nodded from a distance.

She didn't answer anyone with words, only nodded and offered a small smile. But her whole body was tense, waiting for the accusations and blame to be pointed her way.

Klaus waited too. They sat at the bar, him and Marcel, both looking civil, watching her. Marcel had still been seething about his home being blown up, and somehow, watching him glare every now and then at Isabella made it obvious that she'd done it.

She looked fresh; he recognized Zeke's leather jacket she was wearing and her hair was tied back, away from her face. Her eyes seemed more reflective than usual.

Every now and then, her gaze slid toward them both, and there was something nasty in the smile she gave Marcel. Eventually she walked over, and she nodded at Klaus as if they were strangers, and began talking to Marcel.

"Get it over with. Point your finger at me so they can come raging with pitchforks and fires."

Klaus got the image in his head. He imagined Isabella smiling at people coming to kill her; somehow, he knew she'd probably like the attention.

Marcel didn't reply. He acted like he didn't even hear her comment. He said, "How long have you been wearing that?"

They all knew he was talking about Zeke's jacket. He saw a flash of pain across her expression before it disappeared and there was only a blank mask.

"I found it today," she answered. "No one knew him."

The comment was strange. Both men peered at her, not understanding. She leaned back, between them both and took a long sip of her soda. "I was kidnapped when I was human, once. For 4 months. And he found me."

"He told me about that," Marcel stared at her with narrowed eyes. "Not much. It was personal to him."

"They took me half way across the world. I counted every day, feeling myself die a little more as every hour passed… but he found me without help."

He tried imagining her as a human, vulnerable, and the image didn't come. "How old are you?" Klaus asked.

"I was turned in the 1920s," she replied. "I can't really remember. We both turned soon after he found me," she suddenly stood straighter, narrowing her eyes and facing Marcel. "Tell me about who died today. Tell me everything about them."

Marcel looked taken aback by this request, but he recovered from his confusion and only frowned before answering. "Their names were Jake and Kahlan. They were both turned a few months ago."

Marcel stopped. Klaus was surprised he'd gotten this far, but there was no expression on Isabella's face. Not guilt, not smugness, not satisfaction. She nodded and turned back to the crowd.

"You told me that rogue vampires killed Zeke. Could it have been them?" she asked.

"No," Marcel answered, no uncertainty in his tone.

"Could it have been Diego?" she nodded across the room towards him. "Or Catelyn? Or maybe Ryan. They all have two things in common: they're low in your family tree that you've created, but fiercely loyal to you. Which means they would follow your every word."

Marcel went silent. Klaus stared between them, then cleared his throat and looked away.

"That's a serious accusation your making." Marcel crossed his arms.

She didn't say anything else. She put her glass down and turned, waving towards a nightwalker vampire who had been staring at her as he walked passed. Uncertainly, he walked toward her, frowning and looking nervous.

"I need you to pick up a few things for me in Sabina Valley," she said, like she was asking him to pick up milk from the store, or commenting on the weather. "There's a private jet waiting. Can you do it?"

The nightwalker looked like he was ready to sink into the floor.

"Uh… with all due respect, I'm not… able…"

She slipped off her daylight ring and handed it to him. He took it and stared like he was holding the world's fortunes in his hands.

"What's your name?" she asked him.

"Nolan,"

"It shouldn't take longer than 3 days, Nolan,"

She told him where to get to the jet and sat back again as he scurried off.

"What's in Sabina Valley?" Klaus asked. It was a small village, but beautiful. Marcel, on the other side of her, rolled his eyes.

"Private auction," he said. "Finger paintings."

"Vermeer," Isabella corrected, annoyed.

"You collect art?" Klaus was surprised. She hadn't seemed like an art type of person; but then, it was usually the strangest people who ended up being artists.

"She doesn't collect art," Marcel said, then turned and whispered loudly, "she _steals _art."

She didn't reply. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded at someone in the crowd. There was a bit of a commotion, a girl yelling out and a glass smashing, and as Marcel stood to see what was happening, Isabella caught onto Klaus's arm and pulled him outside.

"What?" he demanded, pulling his arm from her grasp. She glared at him, eyes intense under the streetlight.

"Why are you still here?" she demanded back. "And why is your family migrating here?"

"My family?" he repeated, the word foreign for a moment.

"Elijah," she elaborated. "Why is your brother here?" _How did she know?_

"It's none of your business," he snapped. "What is wrong with you?" Did she have to control everything?

"What is wrong with _you?"_ she snapped back. "You're sitting back, letting Marcel control you like a _puppy."_

"Shut your mouth," he growled, clenching his fists.

"Or what?" she challenged. "You'll bark? Your leash can only go so far…_sobachka," _

He couldn't stop the snarl, and his hands twitched. He wanted to strangle the life out of her. What did she know about control? What did she know about _anything? _And she still stood there, waiting expectantly, and when the voice came out of the shadows, not a trace of surprise was on her expression.

"You shouldn't rile him up like that," Elijah said, frowning as he stood in the alley. "And if you wanted to talk to me, all you had to do was ask."

"I did," she pointed out, turning to him and forgetting the conversation she'd just had with Klaus. Klaus was still seething. He couldn't stop hearing her faint Russian accent as she uttered the word _sobachka_… the word for puppy.

And he couldn't stop looking between Elijah and Isabella, wondering why they looked like they'd had a thousand conversations before, and the knowing look in both of their eyes.

"I recognised your car," Elijah said, disapproval in his tone.

"You love my car," Isabella said knowingly, crossing her arms. "I lost you for a bit there."

"3 years is not a _bit_," Elijah scoffed, smiling a little. "You got close a few times,"

This time, Isabella didn't reply, and Elijah went on. "You were easy to keep track of. The Van Gogh from Egypt you stole in 2010, a Picasso from France in the same year, the two Monet paintings from 2012 in the Netherlands, and a Faberge Imperial egg from this year… January? Switzerland, if I recall correctly. And who knows how many thefts went undetected,"

"You two know each other?" Klaus demanded, shock in his voice. "And you're a thief?" this he directed toward Isabella. She shrugged, and Elijah answered.

"I turned her."

* * *

**Hey guys, it's getting kinda hard to write without much to go on from the Originals TV show, so I might stop for a bit. Tell me if you think I should go on? Please review, I don't usually write when I don't get much response.**


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